


Roses and rosin

by Obotligtnyfiken



Series: Chickens coming home to roost [2]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Consequences, Gen, breaking laws rules and regulations
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-02
Updated: 2017-06-02
Packaged: 2018-11-08 06:24:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,295
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11075865
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Obotligtnyfiken/pseuds/Obotligtnyfiken
Summary: Breaking the rules has consequences. Following the rules has consequences as well.What if Molly and Sally met after Sherlock's return?





	Roses and rosin

**Author's Note:**

> This fanfiction takes place at the beginning of The Empty Hearse, the first episode of season three of BBC’s Sherlock. It is inspired by the prompt “breaking laws, rules and regulations” + roses + violin that I got from my friend the talented writer A.E. Hellstorm. 
> 
> The prompt is based on one of my “Moffat’s chickens”: twelve ideas from the hiatus about what Steven Moffat could have meant when he said in an interview that chickens were coming home to roost in s4. Link for Moffat's Chickens: https://obotligtnyfiken.tumblr.com/post/138370350688/master-post-for-moffats-chickens
> 
> I do not own these characters. This work is for entertainment purposes only.

The doorbell jingled as Sally opened the door to the café and was enveloped in warm air and pleasant sounds: clinking china and the low hum of friendly chatter. In the background, a song was playing, something comfortingly well produced in that category at the crossroads of soul, singer/songwriter and pop that cafés with ambitions of both quality and commercial success are so enamoured with. She breathed in the sweet smell of tea and cake, and closed the door behind her.

She was chilled to the bone in her inadequate and worn winter jacket. She had bought a new coat last winter, which was warm, stain resistant and actually a bit flattering, but the zipper had broken this morning and she had been forced to dig out her old one. The neckline was too wide and it only had buttons, no zipper, so the wind crept in no matter how she tried to close it.

It had been an unseasonably cold day and she had spent most of it at a crime scene by the river. There really was no excuse for cold weather this early in November. Sally felt that she had earned a cup of tea before she tried to grasp the steering wheel with her frozen hands to drive home.

There was a bit of a line, and the café was crowded, but she decided to stay anyway. The wait would give her more time to warm up, and as she was on her own, she should be able to find someone willing to share their table with her. Going out into the cold wind was not an option until she had defrosted, anyway.

As she waited for her turn at the counter, Sally put her hands in her pockets to check for coins, digging with her fingers among abandoned napkins, lint and odd pieces of string. At the bottom of her left pocket she found an old crime scene glove with something hard underneath. She pushed the glove away and grasped a hard object. She fumbled with it for a second before it dawned on her what it was. The rosin. Suddenly, the violin part of the ballad playing in the background seemed to grow louder and she thought she could smell the woodsy scent of the purified resin despite the fact that it was still wrapped in its cloth and buried in her pocket. She had forgotten all about that day, the violin shop and the scent of rosin that had caught her attention.

She took the rosin out of her pocket and opened the cloth. It looked like a large piece of clear amber, polished and smooth. The shiny surface stuck incongruously to her finger and she felt the old guilt and uncertainty engulf her. Would he have jumped if she had kept quiet? Would he have killed anyone if she hadn’t?

She had bought the rosin on a whim shortly after Sherlock’s fall when she happened to pass a violin shop. A harried violinist had opened the door with a bang, rushing out in a gust of warm air smelling of rosin, wood and old papers. The scent had overwhelmed her with memories of Sherlock, that bane of her existence, and she had realised that this was the particular scent of 221 B Baker Street that would forever remind her of drug busts, insults and death. She walked into the shop, sniffed around until she identified the source of the scent and bought a piece of rosin from a confused shop assistant. That first, long winter, she had squeezed the rosin in her pocket every time the feeling of guilt started creeping up from her stomach to her chest. It was a miracle she hadn’t cracked it.

Sally shook her head firmly, wrapped the rosin up tightly in its cloth, and pushed it back down to the bottom of the pocket. Sherlock Holmes wasn’t dead, he had been swanning around Europe on some sort of adventure for two years, not caring a whit what kind of havoc he had wreaked on people’s lives. She balled her fists tightly in her pockets to keep them from shaking with anger. That bastard.

She had been wrong, she had no problem admitting that. She had been taken in by Moriarty’s schemes, as had the rest of law enforcement as soon as she had raised the alarm. It had been the right thing to do. Any police officer worth her salt would have done the same. Should have done the same. She had always been proud of her ability to see through bullshit and she maintained that Sherlock Bloody Holmes was the biggest bullshitter known to man. Just not about the things she had thought.

She sighed. She couldn't decide what to think about him being back. She was relieved that she no longer had to live with having driven a man to his death. She was happy for Lestrade, whose career was back on track and who was smiling again. She was thankful that Anderson’s sanity had been somewhat restored, even if she would never understand what she had seen in that guy, and she was even glad for that annoying sidekick John Watson, who had looked like a grieving widower on the brink of extinction every time Lestrade had dragged him to a pub night. But life had been infinitely simpler without Sherlock Holmes in it, and the way everyone forgave and forgot his deception grated on Sally’s sense of justice. And she couldn't do a thing about it, except keep her mouth shut and her head down. She couldn't expose him again - no one would believe there was anything in it other than jealousy.

Finally, it was her turn to order. She decided that this day called for a carrot cake to go with her tea. She paid for her drink and her cake, took the little tray and started looking for a seat.

The cafe was even more crowded now, and Sally ended up standing between two tables, peering around the room. She spotted a free chair in a corner, at a small table occupied by just one woman. Perfect! The woman seemed to be on her own, which meant that Sally wouldn't be forced to eavesdrop on a first date or a heart to heart between girlfriends. She hurried across the room to get there first.

When she got to the table, she stopped and started to ask if the seat was free, but the words caught in her throat when she saw who the woman was. Was it too late to sneak away? Or would that be too rude? Before she could decide, the woman lifted her red rimmed eyes and looked straight at Sally. She seemed to hesitate for a moment as well, but then she greeted Sally tremulously.

“Hello, DS Donovan”

 

\---

 

Molly tried to keep her fingers from shredding the paper napkin in her lap. This wasn't her. She wasn't this snivelling mess. She was an accomplished professional who not only had successfully pulled off faking a man's death, but who had also faked grieving him and used that grief to put her infatuation with said not dead man to rest. She was strong, she had a good poker face and she did not sit in cafes with tears in her eyes on Tuesday afternoons.

Now that he was back, the charade was over and Molly had thought that she would be happy, but instead her whole world was off kilter. Sherlock himself was not really a problem. Well, of course he was, but she had known from the start that the only way that her engagement with Tom could have a future was if it wrapped itself around the Sherlock shaped hole in her heart. No, what had really thrown her and made her question her very identity was the scrutiny she was under at work. It had never occurred to her that saving Sherlock could ruin her career. Now, her colleagues had stopped talking to her and she got suspicious glances in the cafeteria. After a week of growing tension, her boss had sent her an email summoning her to a meeting tomorrow morning. There was little doubt in Molly’s mind as to how that meeting would end.

Wrapping her hands around her cold teacup, Molly took a deep breath and willed her eyes to stop tearing up. There, that was better. She focused her eyes on the single white rose lying on the table in its wrapping paper and thought of Tom. She had taken care to buy the rose in a bustling train station that she, and he, rarely frequented. That way, it was unlikely that anyone remembered her even for five minutes. He would never understand her need to lay one last rose on Sherlock's grave before the stone was removed. Molly wasn't certain that she understood it completely herself.

She had always tried to hide her unrequited feelings for Sherlock, but at the funeral, it became obvious that everyone who had ever met her knew. She got so many kind comments and pitying looks, that she quickly realised that she needed to put on a show of grief. To her surprise, it felt good. She could grieve the love that would never be requited, and pass it off as grief for Sherlock’s death. Once his gravestone was in place, she went to the grave with a single red rose. She felt defiant, as if she was standing up for herself. She went back a few times with fresh roses, until she realised that what made her return was the fact that she could now express her feelings for Sherlock without risking an insult in return. After that, she decided to stop buying flowers for a man who wasn’t dead but who might as well be, and instead find someone who wouldn’t ridicule her for loving him. Two months later, she met Tom.

Now, she was grieving the end of a career that was as dear to her as Sherlock had ever been. She had fought so hard to get here and for many years it had been her greatest joy to be able to do this important work every day - and do it well. Now it would all come to an end, just because she had decided to break the rules of the law, and follow the rules of her heart.

She wished that none of it had happened. She wished that she had never met Sherlock, that Moriarty had never set his eyes on them, that Sherlock hadn’t antagonised everyone, that Sally Donovan hadn’t accused Sherlock and that Lestrade hadn’t believed her. But wishing didn’t make it so. Tomorrow, it was all going to end, and she needed to close this chapter herself, today, if she was going to be able to face her boss tomorrow. So she had bought a white rose and as soon as she could find the courage, she was going to get up out of this chair, walk out into the cold, windy November day, walk over to the graveyard and place the white rose on Sherlock’s grave. And then she would turn her back on her professional life forever.

A shadow fell over the table, and Molly looked up, straight into the sharp eyes of DS Sally Donovan. For a moment, she had the absurd thought that the police officer had been summoned by Molly’s wishful thinking, but she managed to shake the feeling before it took hold.

“Hello, DS Donovan.”

 

\---

 

“Eh … Hello, Ms Hooper!” Sally said much too jovially. She cleared her throat and tried again. “Fancy bumping into you here! I was just going to …” Sally realised that there was no way to end that sentence that didn’t sound like she was asking to sit down, which was the very last thing she wanted to do right now.

“Oh, I’m sorry, where are my manners? Please sit down, DS Donovan!” Molly pulled her cup and her things towards her to clear the other half of the table.

Sally saw no other option than to sit down. “Thank you,” she said with as much warmth as she could muster. She filled a few moments with removing her jacket and placing her bag under the table. When she could no longer avoid it, she took a deep breath and put her social face on. “I haven’t seen you in a while. How have you been, Ms Hooper?”

“Oh, call me Molly! Everyone does,” Molly replied and then seemed to blush, probably realising what she had just said.

“And I’m Sally,” Sally managed to say with a small smile.

“Cold day, isn’t it?” Molly said.

Sally stopped herself from rolling her eyes. English people should be banned from speaking about the weather, she thought to herself. “Yes, it’s terrible. I’ve been at a crime scene down by the river all day. That’s why I’m here. I needed to defrost before going home.”

“What kind of crime scene was it?” Molly asked.

“A murder, it seems,” Sally replied.

“Maybe that one will end up with me, then,” Molly said happily. Then her face fell suddenly and she looked like she was about to cry. Cry again, Sally realised, her eyes were already red and the napkin in her lap was about to fall apart.

Sally’s detective instincts awakened and she wondered what could have made this dedicated professional tear up at the thought of a murder victim. “Molly, what is wrong? What has happened?” she said before she could stop herself.

Molly’s face crumpled and she pressed the tattered napkin against her eyes. “I’m … It’s just work. It’s … I have a meeting with my boss tomorrow.”

Sally felt certain that something was very, very wrong. “That doesn’t sound too bad … or is it?” she said, hoping to provoke a response.

Molly seemed to brace herself. She lowered the napkin and looked Sally straight in the eye. “I helped Sherlock fake his death,” she said defiantly. “People are starting to ask questions and I am probably getting sacked tomorrow.” She sat up straighter now, as if she felt unburdened after saying out loud what must have been weighing heavily on her.

Sally was flabbergasted. She hadn’t thought about _how_ Sherlock had managed to fool everyone. She had been too occupied being angry and relieved. But of course he would have needed help. She stared at Molly, trying not to let her face show how she pitied someone stupid enough to be taken in by that narcissistic freak.

A flash of anger lighted Molly’s eyes. “Would you have preferred that he had jumped for real?” she said viciously.

Sally felt struck to the core. “No, God, no!” She suddenly felt awful. “I just didn’t know … I had no idea he had help. That you helped him. But of course he would have needed …” Stop babbling, Donovan! She tried to quench the flow of words but it was impossible. “It must have been terrible for you, to know, and to do that. And now …” She really had to stop talking now! Sally clenched her jaw shut and fell abruptly silent.

“Yes, it was. But not as terrible as it would have been to believe that he was really dead,” Molly said. She looked up at Sally and her eyes softened. “It must have been difficult for you, Sally,” she said questioningly.

“For me?”

“I know that you raised the alarm. You must have thought that the investigation drove him to his death.”

“I … Yes. I did. It was awful, but I had no choice. The evidence was there. I’m a police officer. I have to follow the evidence.”

“I know. I was taken in by Moriarty too, you know.”

“You were?”

“We dated a few times. He worked in our IT department. Called himself Jim. I should have known he was only dating me to get to Sherlock.”

Sally stared at Molly. She seemed so timid, so focused on work and so lost in her crush on Sherlock, but there were obviously hidden depths to her. Well, there would have to be for Sherlock to choose her to help him with his ruse.

Thinking about Sherlock’s deceit woke Sally’s anger again. It always seemed to simmer under the surface, these days. She was so infinitely fed up with arrogant men who got their way through any means possible, and then swanned through life without taking the consequences for their actions.

“So let me get this straight. Sherlock decided to fake his death and got you to help him. He couldn’t have done it without you, right?”

Molly nodded.

“Now he’s back, his name cleared, and he’s the hero of the day, while you are having your career wrecked. And he hasn’t lifted a finger to help you, has he?”

Molly lowered her eyes and started fiddling with the wrapping paper of a bouquet lying on the table. “There is nothing he can do. I broke the rules.”

Sally felt as if steam was going to come out of her ears soon, like in an old fashioned cartoon. “Are you insane? Are you going to take the rap for this and let him walk free, again?!”

“What do you mean, again? He has done nothing but solve crimes and risk his life to save others. What do you think he has been doing these past two years? Sunning himself in the Caribbean? He has been taking down Moriarty’s network single-handedly. And do you know why he faked his own death? Because Moriarty was going to kill John, Mrs Hudson and Lestrade if he didn’t jump!” Molly was red in the face and breathing heavily.

Sally’s mind was reeling. Kill Lestrade? Taking down Moriarty’s network? It was too much to take in.

Sally and Molly sat in silence for a few minutes, staring at Sally’s untouched carrot cake. Eventually, Sally reached down into her jacket pocket, pulled out the little piece of rosin, and put it on the table.

Molly looked up at her. “What is that?”

“It’s a piece of rosin. You put it on the violin bow to create better friction with the strings.”

“OK?” Molly looked confused.

“Two years ago, when all that had just happened, I walked past a violin shop. The smell of rosin reminded me of Sherlock and for some reason, I ended up buying a piece. I kept it in my pocket all that winter. I’m not really sure why. Maybe I needed a reminder that he was real, and the reasons for why I did what I did was real.”

Sally looked Molly in the eye. “I followed the rules. It felt wrong but it was right. You broke the rules. I’m guessing it felt right to you. Maybe that was the right thing to do, too.”

“Thanks,” Molly whispered.

It didn’t matter if Sherlock was a saint, a fool or a crook, Sally thought. Having Molly take the consequences was just wrong, no matter the rules. “I’m going to call Lestrade,” she said.    

“Why?”

“There has to be a way to get you out of this. You haven’t even told anyone else about this, have you?”

Molly shook her head.

“And I bet Sherlock hasn’t told Lestrade that he jumped to save him, or John and Mrs Hudson for that matter. Lestrade would have told me, I’m sure.” Sally shook her head. “This just isn’t on.” She pulled up her phone from her bag and dialled Lestrade’s number.

“Hi, Sally! What’s up?”

“Lestrade. Listen, something important has come up.”

Lestrade groaned. “Don’t tell me there’s another one.”

“No, no. This isn’t work. Or it is … Well, it’s Sherlock.”

“Sherlock? What has he done this time?”

“It’s more what he hasn’t done. I met Molly Hooper, you know, from the mortuary?”

“Yes, of course I know Molly.”

“Well, did you know that she helped Sherlock pull that stunt of his? And that she is facing consequences at work? Sherlock isn’t doing anything about it, of course.”

“What? She did?”

“Yes, and you’ve got to stop her boss from sacking her.”

“Me? How am I supposed to do that? And why me?”

“Lestrade,” Sally said sternly. “Has Sherlock told you that he if he didn’t jump, you, Mrs Hudson and John Watson would have been killed?”

“What? What are you talking about?”

Sally sighed. “I knew it. Listen, you can figure all this out later, but right now you’ve got to get a move on. Molly has a meeting with her boss tomorrow, so this needs to be sorted today. You know Sherlock’s brother, right?”

“Yes …”

“He is high up in government, isn’t he? And you know him a bit? If you call him and tell him about this, I’m sure he can work his magic.”

“Right. Yes. All right. I’ll call Mycroft,” Lestrade said. “Listen, are you with Molly right now?”

“Yes, she’s here.”

“Tell her not to worry. I’ll call her once I’ve talked to Mycroft.”

“Allright. Good luck, Lestrade.”

“Thanks. And thanks for calling me. You did the right thing.”

They rang off and Sally put her phone back into her bag. “Lestrade is calling Sherlock’s brother. He is freakishly powerful and keeps having his minions pop into crime scenes to take over when he feels like it. Sorting out a mishap with hospital policy shouldn’t even make him break a sweat.”

“It wasn’t just hospital policy …” Molly squeaked.

“Hush. If you don’t tell me, I won’t know. I'm certain it’s all the same to a Holmes.” Sally smiled, hoping to comfort Molly. “Lestrade will call you later and let you know how it went.

Molly stared at Sally for a long moment. “Thank you. Thank you so much.”

Sally waved her hand. “Don’t mention it,” she said and looked out of the window. She cleared her throat. “So, what are you going to do now?”

“Well, I was going to go put a rose on Sherlock’s grave.”

Sally looked back at Molly, surprised. “You were?”

“Well, not a rose for Sherlock, obviously,” Molly blushed. “I used to do that when he was gone, to sort of put him to rest for me. I was going to go put my career to rest today, to prepare for tomorrow. It felt fitting, somehow.”

Sally shook her head slowly. “You are an amazing woman, Molly Hooper. I can’t believe you were just going to give up your career like that.”

“Maybe I won’t have to, now,” Molly smiled shyly.

“No, let's hope not,” Sally said smiled back. Then she stood up suddenly, held up her finger and said “Sit still!”. She ran up to the counter, asking for a second fork. She returned to the table, waving the piece of cutlery triumphantly. “We need cake!”

Molly laughed and accepted the fork. “Thank you. I think we do.”

They ate the cake in companionable silence. Once the last crumb was gone, Molly put the fork down and picked up the flower. “I am going to go to the graveyard now. I’m going to put the flower down, but not for me and my career, but for an end to all this nonsense. For a new beginning!” Molly smiled.

“That’s the spirit!” Sally said.

Molly gathered up her things and wound her scarf around her neck. “Thank you, Sally. For everything.”

“Don't mention it,” Sally replied.

 

\---

 

The icy wind almost took Molly’s breath away as she entered the graveyard. It felt good, cleansing somehow. This afternoon had left her both exhausted and exhilarated. Maybe there was hope for her after all.

Her mobile pinged and she stuck the rose under her arm as she fumbled to get it out.

_Dr Patel has accepted an overseas assignment starting immediately. I have been assured that the search for his replacement has top priority and I have been able to provide a few names that may be deemed suitable for the position. I hope you will not find this disruption a hindrance in your daily duties, Ms Hooper._

_MH_

MH? It took a few moments for Molly to connect the dots. Mycroft Holmes. She checked her watch. It couldn’t be more than an hour since Sally called Lestrade. This was … good. Spooky, and creepy, but good. She suddenly realised that there would be no meeting tomorrow. She took a deep breath and laughed out loud. Then, she remembered where she was and looked around apologetically, hoping she hadn’t disturbed anyone.

With a spring in her step, Molly walked up to the black gravestone and took out the white rose from its wrapping paper.

“Goodbye, nonsense,” she said, put the rose down and walked away.

 

\---

 

Sally tried to hide her chin in the collar of her jacket as the wind howled around the corner. Any minute now, the warmth from the cafe would have been blown away and her hands would be as cold as before.

On the way to her car, she walked past an underground station, where warm air flowed up from the tunnels. A street musician stood playing his violin in the sheltered recess at the top of the stairs. Sally didn’t know the tune, but it was lovely and the violinist seemed to know what he was doing.

She reached into her pockets for a coin, only to remember that she had already checked them and not found any. Her fingers bumped into the rosin again, and she got an idea. She pulled it out, showed it to the violinist, and placed it in his case among the coins. At first he looked confused, but then he broke into a grin and nodded his thanks. Sally walked on towards her car and her drive home to a hot bath and dinner.


End file.
